


Burn The Heart

by AdderBaggins



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: I Don't Even Know, now we have more info on Sherlock's childhood i guess this'd class as AU, something i found that I've had lying around since the end of series one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-20
Updated: 2014-02-20
Packaged: 2018-01-13 04:27:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1212664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdderBaggins/pseuds/AdderBaggins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty said he would "burn the heart". At the time, Sherlock thought he knew what he'd meant by that...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burn The Heart

**Author's Note:**

> This is.... I don't even know what this is.  
> Please ignore the poor summary. And the title.  
> I never know what to put in those things.

Church bells rang nearby; the sound of birds chattering filling the space in-between, and the early spring sun covered everything it touched in surprising warmth. It was wrong, the single thought in the detective’s great mind. It had no business being here. The sun, the birds, they made this seem like a happy place. They were cheerful things that at one time he would have tolerated with the grace he tolerated most things. But not now. Not any-more.

He glanced down at the freshly dug hole in the ground, the dark mahogany wooden box that was snugly seated within, waiting to be covered and hidden from sight forever. He had only ever attended one funeral in his life, back when he was a small boy. An aunt had died and his mother had forced him to go, muttering about good manners and how it was expected. He’d spent the entire time watching everyone else, calculating gaze roaming around and deducing things even then. There was none of that this time around.  
His eyes had been fixed firmly on this box. There were no deductions or observations running through his mind this time. He dimly recalled hands on his shoulder, whispered words of sorrow and pity from people he didn't even know. Why were they even here? None of them cared, not like he did. They weren't important. A voice in the back of his mind declared that it was possible nothing would ever be important again.

His gaze flickered finally to the grey headstone, the words carefully carved upon it. Words that would sit there for years to come, informing anyone who glanced their way of the person who rested beneath it. Wrong. This was all so very wrong. He fell to his knees, uncaring of the damp earth that would no doubt ruin his trousers. One hand moved, fingers trembling, and traced the curve of each letter tarnishing the cold stone. Moisture blurred his vision, guilt weighing heavily on his shoulders. This was his fault. Moriarty had warned him what he could do and he hadn't listened. Here was the stark proof, his heart torn from his chest and left in tatters upon the floor. Moriarty had known exactly where to aim, and he hadn't missed.

“Sherlock.” He didn't turn as his name was called, didn't even acknowledge that he’d heard it. Footsteps approached, a hand coming to rest upon his shoulder like so many had before it that day. “Come.” It was a simple instruction, the tone one that brooked no argument.  
Slowly he got to his feet, eyes falling back to the sight of that box, and a single tear escaped to cut a trail over his cheek. He didn't try to wipe it away; he knew that acknowledging it would simply cause more to fall. “I will find him.” The words were quiet, forced from his throat and heavy with emotion that he had at one time insisted he didn't possess. “I will find him and I will make him pay for this. I promise.” And he would, even if it killed him too. 

“Sherlock.” That voice again, laced with a touch of understanding, the hand upon his shoulder squeezing reflexively. Eyes falling closed he sucked in a deep breath, steadying himself before he re-opened them and cast one last, long look at the headstone. Their life together hadn't been easy, far from it. But he had never envisioned it coming to this end. “The car is waiting.” The voice uttered, soft yet sturdy. And with that sentence he knew it was time to leave.

His hand reached out, fingers curling around those of the man beside him. “Let us go home, John.” Home. Because he couldn't stomach standing another minute here. They turned as one unit, strong together as they walked through the cemetery towards the gates. Sherlock paused there only briefly, casting a look back towards the spot his brother would now occupy. And then he nodded once, something undefinable shining in his gaze, before he continued onwards through the stone arch and away from final resting place of the first person to have ever truly loved him.


End file.
